Disclaimer: I don't own anything that is Harry Potter related, I don't mean any disrespect against J.K. or the original story. Thank you Jo for everything, thank you for being an incredible inspiration!
Chapter 1
"One year until next time" I mumbled to myself before raising the bottle of firewhisky to my lips. Yet another sip of the ember liquid I had swiped from my fathers storage earlier the same year along with half a dozen more made its way through my mouth and down my throat. "365 days until next time..." this time I had to tilt my head back quite far to get the desired drink down me. The decision to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays this year had been an easy one. To much crap involving death eaters and the dark Lord was going on at the manor and it was genuinely the last shit show I wanted any part in at the moment. "Fuck!" annoyance washed over me and half a second later I launched the bottle across the dormitory room, shattering on the wall opposite me. I knew that the half a bottle of firewhisky I had downed in a relatively short period of time had had an effect on me, still I needed more. Lately the times I had resorted to my secret stash of bottles had increased tremendously, it was a fact I didn't want to acknowledge or admit to. A dash, or five, of firewhisky when everything felt a bit to much was a quick fix that left no clues to the state of my well being for the rest of the castle once I'd had a few hours sleep.
Christmas used to be my absolute favourite time of the year. Growing up the excitement over the holidays would start already in mid November as the house elves would start going through the manor, scrubbing it from top to bottom. Come December the festive décor would fuel me and feed my buzz throughout the month. As a child the knowledge of and the opening of presents was probably the main source and reasons to the giddiness, but it was also a time of year when I would feel extra seen and attended to. My mother would also be highly affected by the crimson decorations and secrecy surrounding Christmas and the time leading up to the big day. She had always been a loving and caring mother, even if somewhat held back by my father, during December she would blossom. One of my best and most cherished childhood memories was the time mother woke me up in the early hours of the morning, took my hand and together we sneaked down to the kitchen and baked gingerbread biscuits. My mother was dressed in her gorgeous emerald dressing gown that was most certainly not designed with gingerbread baking in mind, but she couldn't have cared less. Full on biscuits and milk we had tip toed back to bed, hand in hand, just as the house elves we're making an appearance, ready to prepare for the new day. Even my father would be in an over all better mood at this time of year. His Christmas spirit wouldn't embody itself in the same way as my mother, but to someone who spent their life in his rather constant presence, there was an obvious change every year.
But, what goes up must eventually come down, and it was the same story every year. As a little boy it would be almost time for me to head to bed. I would sit on the floor in the drawing room, playing with what ever gift I had taken the most liking to, minding my own business. Father would be staring in to space, lost in his own thoughts, whilst slowly nursing a large tumbler of firewhisky . My mother on the other hand would be slumped on the sofa, the twinkling lights in her eyes from earlier in the day had been snuffed out and the cheer and excitement was gone.
"One year until next time" she would sigh. In the beginning I hadn't really understood what she meant, but as I got older I would feel it too. All the preparations, the longing and the wait leading up to this one specific day, only to be over and done with in a matter of hours. Leaving you feeling rather empty.
Even though I hadn't spent the day with my family and even though I hadn't been in the mansion for months I still seemed to have contracted what I had come to call, post Christmas depression. I didn't know if it was my mothers fault that I had started to feel this way each year or if it was the unrealistic fantasies of that perfect childhood Christmas that would never be again. Which ever the reason I was filled to the brim with disappointment and dissatisfaction. Disappointed over the fact that the day hadn't been magical, but also over the fact that the day had already passed. Dissatisfied with the scarce gifts, annoyed I didn't get anything that I really wanted even though I had asked for nothing because there was nothing I wanted or could think of when mother has requested a list.
I woke up on boxing day morning with a hangover from hell. Convinced I'd had less than half a bottle last night but in truth it might have been three quarters of a bottle of firewhisky. Even though all I wanted was to sleep and maybe down the equivalence of the black lake in water I forced myself out of bed and in to some clothes. It wasn't like breakfast was mandatory but there was something inside of me worrying that if I didn't show up people would get ideas seeing as we were less than a dozen people remaining over the holidays. So, with a tremendous amount of effort I started heading up the stairs for breakfast.
Speaking of alcohol. It wasn't even really my thing, or, the alcohol and the effect of it was amazing, but the aftermaths, the next day. I couldn't stand feeling nauseous and panic flared through me by the mere thought of potentially being sick. But drinking had become the easy alternative to my usual method of shackling my emotions and thoughts. Unfortunately I wouldn't be able to keep the habit up for much longer. Before falling asleep the previous night I had checked the status of my current stash at the bottom of a bag I had magically tampered with, and found, to my horror, that I was down to only two bottles of firewhisky . If I wouldn't have been a bit to tipsy the reality of already having gone through 11 bottles and it only being Christmas would have scared me, but I was to tired and to dulled out to reflect over the matter or truly care.
"Ah Mr Malfoy, how kind of you to join us." Dumbledore greeted me with a smile as I walked through the doors, approaching the small, and more intimate table set for us.
"Morning." I muttered under my breath, avoiding the headmasters eyes. If there was a person at the castle to notice my hangover it'd be him. I glanced around and quickly counted six staff, Filch, Sprout, Flitwick, Snape, McGonagall, and Dumbledore. And then seven students, a first year Slytherin I didn't know the name of, the Patil sisters, two Ravenclaws from year seven, Potter, and some girl who I think belonged in Hufflepuff. Plus me, I was the last one to arrive.
I spent most of breakfast pushing a couple of baked beans around my plate and building a small mound with my tiny serving of scrambled eggs. Every bite I took from my slice of toast grew in my mouth and it required several sips of pumpkin juice to force the doughy sludge down my throat. Dumbledore spent most of breakfast conversing with McGonagall, the two Ravenclaws were discussing the upcoming N.E.W.T.s whilst the Patils were trying to involve Potter in one of their chit-chats but he appeared extremely uninterested. As soon as Snape excused himself and raised to leave I mumbled something about a late homework, upped and left. Although, instead of following my professor I headed back towards the Slytherin dungeons and my bed.
"uuuuughrr" I whimpered. You know a little shot of that firewhisky would solve all of this. The voice living in my head, the one judging everything I did, the one controlling how I lived my life, the one that could only be silenced in a handful of ways, being drowned in alcohol was one. Fuck you. Oh really. You know I am right. You can either suffer until dinner time, or simply have a shot, or five, and be all fine. I'll just end up puking, it's not worth it. I would say it's worth the risk.
As always, I soon caved to the voice's suggestion. Slowly I rolled myself off the edge of the bed and in a sloth like manner I reached for my booze bag. My hands were shaking way more than I liked as I unscrewed the top of the bottle.
"Aaaahh" I couldn't help myself but to let out a sigh of relief as the amber liquid met my lips and burned its way down my throat. The effect wasn't instant but it was as if my brain knew exactly what was about to happen and created a placebo, leaving me feeling so much better at once.
Limiting myself to just two shots of the firewhisky had been nigh on impossible. I should have known, it's been the same story every time lately. I'd open a bottle with the intention of drinking a small glass or two but end up having around half of it, maybe even more. It all depended on how long it would take and how much it'd require to shut up that venomous voice. There had been times during the last semester where I had fallen asleep in my hidey-holes, to drunk to move even an inch, only to wake up hours later in an absolute state. This time I had gone past funnily tipsy but not yet reached the immobilized plastered state. In my fairly intoxicated condition I decided, out of the blue, that a stroll around the castle would be a nice idea. But what if I run in to someone? For a moment my brain seemed to have sobered up. I shrugged the idea off. The castle was almost empty so what were the odds anyway, and hand on heart, I wasn't sooo drunk so if I actually did run in to someone they might not notice anyway.
The halls were empty. Compared to how it used to be it was as if the castle had been abandoned. Today the only sound was the echoing of my dragging feet. My walk was aimless, although I intentionally stayed clear of the areas surrounding the different houses. Walking through the corridor on the first floor I was running my fingers along the stone wall, the surface rough against my skin. Suddenly a door opened up ahead and out stepped Potter. What the hell was he doing here?
"Great." I sighed under my breath. I closed my eyes and for a short moment I considered to turn around but it was obvious that he had already seen me. Still with my hand against the wall I kept walking. Potter approached fairly quickly, our eyes locked for a split second before we both looked away. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I heard my self spit. The look on Potter's face expressed the same confusion I felt inside at my random comment. What was I playing at? How was this trying to be discrete?
"What was that?" he challenged. Knowing that to maintain my character I would have to repeat myself, I would have to be cold.
"What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing. Here?" I breathed. I suddenly felt so tired and it required all my strength to make my words icy.
"Mind your own business, Malfoy." he said sounding more annoyed than angry. Then it hit me, this was the corridor where professor McGonagall had her office. A little smirk started playing on my lips.
"Teachers pet". I scoffed. If I would have had the energy this would have been the perfect opportunity for a more vigorous insult but the effects of the firewhisky was changing it's character and my energy levels had started plummeting. Instead I raised my head to challenge him with my eyes but to my surprise I didn't see what I had expected, something changed in the way he was looking at me. I couldn't tell weather it was confusion or pity. Maybe both.
"Are you drunk?" I could have sworn he raised one of his eyebrows ever so slightly.
"Drunk, why the hell would I be drunk?" I tried to act insulted but my act of innocence was just that, nothing but an act, and a bad one for that matter. It wouldn't require a detective to come to the conclusion that I was in fact, drunk.
"What the fuck, Malfoy" he blurted.
TBC,
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